


The One Who Stayed

by PearlsAndRoses



Series: I never asked for love [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, King Alistair (Dragon Age), Morning After, Oral Sex, POV Alistair (Dragon Age), Past Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age), Past Female Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21549202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearlsAndRoses/pseuds/PearlsAndRoses
Summary: Both saved Thedas, both lost the one they thought the love of their life. When Inquisitor Sorcha Lavellan and King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden meet, they discover they have more in common than they would have thought. Hoping it will drive away the emptiness that Solas left, Sorcha asks Alistair to stay for the night.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Inquisitor, Alistair/Female Lavellan
Series: I never asked for love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559443
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

Sorcha let the wine swirl in her mouth, the deep taste of black currants mingling with the lingering saltiness of the Fereldan cheese. Her eyelids fluttered shut as she took in every aroma, the world existing of nothing but cheese and wine with a background song of the crackling fire.

“I take it you like the wine?” The voice shattered the simple world she had created for herself and made her choke on the wine. Her body contracted with violent coughs and tears filled her eyes. 

“Maker, I’m sorry. Are you all right? Here have some water.” 

Throat raw, she accepted the cup of water handed to her. Sip, cough, sip. Slowly, the coughing stopped and she sliced off a sliver of cheese to get rid of the sour taste left in her mouth.

“To answer your question,” she said, voice husky still, “I do indeed like the wine. The cheese as well.”

“Please forgive me my foolish chatter, I really should learn to stay silent for once.” Lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile. Not what she had expected to see from a king, but then he had kept surprising her right from the start, when he had insisted she’d call him Alistair. _“I have to put up with too many people calling me ‘Your Majesty’, but you saved Thedas, I think even proper etiquette”—eyeroll—“agrees that gives you the right to ignore all titles.”_ At her reply that Thedas owed him as much as it did her, the sparkle in his eyes had died and his voice turned harsh. _“Not me. That wasn’t me.”_ Ever the good diplomat, Josephine had jumped in, saying it must have been a long journey, a servant would show him his quarters. If he needed anything… She’d seen the shadows on his face, however. Shadows she understood all too well.

She crossed her legs underneath her on the plushy chair. “If you call that foolish, I take it you’ve never met an Orlesian.” 

A surprised chuckle. “Unfortunately, I have. Though I guess that was nothing compared to what you had to deal with at the Winter Palace. Glad I wasn’t there.” Where she had taken a sliver of cheese, he took a piece as thick as his finger. 

“Avoiding your responsibilities, were you?” Two days ago, she wouldn’t have dared to talk like that to a king. Sure, she might have been blunt—rude even, according to Josephine—but teasing? No, she wasn’t here to chat and make friends, especially not with a shemlen-king. Still, she couldn’t deny his joking manner and kind ways had let her take down her guard, something that rarely happened with strangers. The few friends she had made, she’d carefully picked. _Not careful enough_ , that nagging voice spoke in the back of her mind. She took a gulp of wine to wash it away. It had been growing louder and louder ever since _he_ had left. Drowning herself in work held it at bay, but the darkness was always there, looming over her, waiting for an unguarded moment to slice her open. 

Alistair munched on the cheese, his throat bobbing when he swallowed. “Can you blame me? I would step on other people’s feet while dancing. Everyone’s feet, not just those of my poor partner. Not to mention those masks, I’m sure mine would somehow end up backwards and upside down at the same time, leaving me to stumble around blindly.” He waved his hands in front of him “Oh, terrible sorry, my lord. Excuse me. Ouch, wall.”

She nearly choked on the wine again, this time from laughter, and he bent over to take her glass before she could spill any. The image of Alistair running into the wall, leaving in his wake a trail of disgruntled Orlesians banished all dark thoughts. At least for now. 

Smiling at her amusement, Alistair added, “And I forgot about the dress. Imagine what a fool I would’ve looked like in one of those dresses.”

More laughter rippled through her, until her stomach ached. How long had it been since someone made her laugh like this? Josephine had been the one to suggest she’d have a more casual meeting with the king— _“It would greatly aid our future relations with Ferelden to meet in a more friendly environment.”_ —and she’d been hesitant at first, but it seemed this would be the best evening in a long time.

“We didn’t wear masks, though, nor dresses, so those are no excuse,” she said when the laughter had finally subsided.

“No masks or dresses? You must have terribly disappointed the Orlesians.” He gave her a crooked grin. “Did you at least dance, then?”

“I…” The little one-on-one with Grand Duchess Florianne had been more like a duel than a dance. Later that evening, though, on a balcony lit by the stars and surrounded by the faint scent of lavender— She grasped for the glass Alistair had put on the table, but his voice stopped her halfway.

“I’m sorry.” He must have misread her surprise for anger, for he shied back at meeting her gaze. “I mean. I didn’t mean to be— It’s just that I _know_ that look.” He averted his eyes, but not before letting her see the pain written in them. Everyone knew of the sacrifice the Hero of Ferelden had made, but not many knew that she had been the lover of the man who was now king. Leliana had told her only when Sorcha, sensing she was withholding something, had pressed her on the matter. Back then, she had simply filed the information away as sentimental shemlen nonsense, but now.

Now she understood what he must have been through, even if in her case, the person was still alive. Her heart clenched together and she bit her cheek to keep from crying. Knowing he had left her when they could have been together only made it worse. At least death was an insurmountable barrier, little the Hero could have done about that.

Alistair’s fingers brushed her hand that was gripping the armrest of her sofa tight enough for her knuckles to gleam white. It was like sparks trailed his touch, running through her arm, all the way down her spine, and she shivered before pulling her hand back. Nobody had touched her like that since—

“Sorry. That was inappropriate of me.” Faint red spread over his cheeks. “I should go. Have to get out early tomorrow to start the journey home.” He made to stand up, but she was faster. Before he could rise, she was standing in front of him.

Without thinking, she placed a hand on his chest. “Stay.” It was more a cry for help than an order and he could’ve easily pushed her aside. He didn’t.

Instead, he leaned back, an eyebrow raised in question. She should say something, explain to him why she had stopped him, but she could only stare into those hazel eyes. Kindness, honesty, the flicker of a joke. Maybe they could make her forget that other pair of eyes that haunted her dreams. If his mere presence made her smile, he might just succeed in fighting the shadows that dragged her down.

It was wrong to think like that, wrong to use him like that, yet she stepped closer, her shins pressing against his. A long, straight nose, stubble lining a strong jaw, full lips. Her heart beat fast. She bent over, brushing her lips against his like the touch of a butterfly’s wings. 

He breathed out. “Sorcha.”

She pulled back just far enough to look at him. “Yes?”

A silence followed in which he searched her face. If he would tell her he had to leave, that it would be for her own good— His voice was hoarse when he asked, “Are you sure?”

This time her mouth closed over his with firm determination. No, she wasn’t sure; all she knew was that staying behind alone would be worse. 

Her tongue darted out to run over his lips and he shuddered, lips parting to let her in. She sat down on his lap, her legs straddling him. His hands moved to the small of her back, pressing her close. Stubble scratched her lips. Her breathing became ragged. More, she needed more.

She slid her hands underneath his shirt. Hot skin. Scars. Some soft hairs on his chest. His groan when she grazed a nipple was swallowed by her. More.

He lifted her like she was no heavier than that glass of wine and, with her legs wrapped around his waist, carried her to her bed where he fell down on top of her. Though falling didn’t describe the careful way in which he held most of his weight on his arms, only his hips pressing hard between her legs. She wriggled her hips to get that pressure where she wanted it, pleasure building in slow, warm waves.

He broke their kiss to take off his shirt and she followed his example. Not wearing a breast band, she lay half-naked before him. Alistair traced a circle around a nipple and again, sparks followed, igniting the fire she’d thought quenched. His hand, rough, calloused, the hand of a warrior, cupped her breast while he nibbled from her earlobe up to the tip of her ear.

Her hips bucked into him, the throbbing between her legs demanding to be answered. He looked up in surprise when she pushed down his trousers, the belt hanging loose between them.

“Years of lock picking,” she explained, her eye drawn from his face downward, over his stomach, following the trail of reddish-brown hairs.

His chuckle turned to a sharp drawing of breath when she caressed the bulge showing through her undergarments. He was hard. She bit her lip to keep from begging him to take her.

His fumbling with her belt buckle took too long, so she undid the belt herself and slipped her trousers and underwear down her legs in one swift movement. Smelling her own lust, she spread her legs, showing him how much she wanted him. By Mythal, did she want him.

The apple of his throat bobbed as he watched her. Underwear gone, he held his hard cock in his hand, stroking slowly. Her tense muscles trembled under his gaze. She needed that sweet relief, she needed him. 

No longer able to wait, she reached to pull him in, but he gently pushed her back down. Her hands spread her thighs, his fingers spread her nether lips and his tongue darted out to touch her clit. Pleasure pulsed through her. Her world was reduced to his tongue and her clit as he kept going and turned her into a moaning mess.

When he came up, out of breath, she eagerly licked her own silty wetness from his lips. Kisses turned to biting, hands exploring, scratching. One moment, he pressed against her, the next she hissed as he slid inside. 

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, his body frozen.

“No!” She pressed her nails into his buttocks. Deeper. He obliged, slowly at first, letting her feel how he stretched her. Deep breaths through his nose showed his restraint. Restraint she didn’t want. Another press in his buttocks. “Harder!” 

A groan and then he lifted her legs over his shoulders and went deep. She moaned, as much from pleasure as from pain as he finally thrust hard and deep. His eyes were closed, hers were wide-open to fill her mind with his image like he filled her body. No space for anything else.

He began pounding her, no other way to describe how his hips slammed into hers, and hit that most sensitive spot again and again, making her cry out. Flesh against flesh with no room to think. 

The climax came fast, heat washing over her in waves, coming from that spot between her legs. Her back arched, her hands grasped at the blankets and a raw cry escaped her. He kept thrusting, rhythm lost now, then grabbed her thighs and pulled her into him, drawing out the last waves of her pleasure. A low groan as he spilled into her.

A slow smile spread over her lips while Alistair lay on top of her. Their chests heaved against each other, their forms entwined. She’d have to get up, clean herself, but not right now. Lazy bliss spreading through her, she closed her eyes and let his warmth engulf her. He’d given her a moment of respite, a place to hide from the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair reflects on the past evening, but can't keep those memories of another woman from slipping in. And then there's the morning after. Is there ever a morning after that is completely without awkwardness? A spirit popping up certainly doesn't help matters.

Slow, deep breaths came from the woman beside him. The thin lines that had marred her forehead the entire evening had smoothed out and her dark hair was spread over the pillow in disarray. The curtains were drawn back to show the moon hanging above the snow-capped mountains. She liked to see the sky, she'd said.

Alistair yawned. He should go back to his own quarters, get some sleep before they had to travel back, because he surely wouldn't get much rest sleeping in a tent. Funny how quickly he'd become used to the comforts of the palace. Well, to the sleeping comforts. And the food. And maybe, just maybe, it had turned out to be convenient to have someone else ready his clothes for the next day. If only those clothes wouldn’t be so stuffy. Forget it, he couldn't get used to the clothes at all. Wearing armour had been plain and simple and he'd even managed to mess that up at times. The things— _“Suits, Alistair,”_ he could hear Eamon say—he had to wear even when he wasn't going anywhere were plain torture.

A quiet mutter made him look down again. At the Inquisitor. The Herald of Andraste. Sorcha. His mouth quirked into a smile that wasn't quite a smile. She had as many titles as him and seemed to care about them as little as he did. Certainly not what he'd expected, most people he met these days were rather too fond of their titles and names and mansions and how large the chandelier in their hallway was. While he hadn't been sure what to make of the many stories stirring up Ferelden, stirring up Thedas, he'd never thought he'd meet someone he would actually _like_.

He closed his eyes. Just for a moment. It had been a couple of tiring days filled with meeting after meeting, after all. She'd been distant, cold even, at first. Not that he could blame her for that. How many people would have judged her based on her ears alone? Good thing she didn't have vallaslin, that would only have made it worse. He hadn't quite figured that one out yet, she was definitely old enough for the markings. Were the stories about Andraste having removed them to show Sorcha was her chosen one true after all? He'd thought them silly gossip, but what other explanation was there?

Anyway, he was glad she'd opened up and had even laughed at his jests. Most people he had to deal with didn't laugh. Not really. The polite turning up of mouths and nodding didn't count. So he'd stopped trying. A long sigh escaped him. He'd never been good at the serious stuff, that had been Anna-Lise's strength. She'd promised him he'd do fine, he could learn from her, but then she'd been gone and he'd been left behind to learn by himself. No, that wasn't fair. It had never been her intention to leave him, he had to believe that. He had to believe she sincerely thought Riordan was still alive when she'd ordered him to stay behind, he had to believe she'd never planned on facing that stupidly large bird by herself.

His throat felt tight, like someone was choking him, the dull ache in his chest becoming harder to ignore. He swallowed, but his mouth was dry. Careful not to disturb Sorcha’s sleeping form, he reached over her to the glass of water on her nightstand. It was cool, soothing even and over the light flavour of honey, there was a trace of embrium. So she too had trouble sleeping. Some pair of leaders they made, heartbroken and neither wanting to be in the place they’d been put in. At least his company tonight had helped her take her mind off things, or so he hoped. He had surely enjoyed her company. His cheeks glowed warm at the memory of her lips, her teasing tongue. Heat flared in the pit of his stomach as he thought of her body underneath him, her hips rising up to meet his thrusts. Darkness had followed, but it had been a darkness filled with her moans that urged him to go on until she had come. 

He pushed the blankets aside to feel the air cool his heated skin. It really was time to go now. No matter how much he trusted his guards, there would be rumours if he didn’t return to his room. But leaving would mean she’d wake up alone. Wasn’t much fun, waking up alone with the memory of that other person’s embrace left behind in the Fade. He couldn’t be the one she longed for, just like she couldn’t replace the woman who ought to have lived, but he could stay. Let those rumours be true for a change.

Like she’d sensed his decision, she snuggled closer to him. After a moment of hesitation, he put his arm around her, her body small, fragile, yet warm and comforting. Their bodies close together, Alistair’s mind drifted off to the Fade. 

* * *

“Wake up. You have to wake up,” a voice whispered urgently. Alistair bolted upright to find a young man with a broad-brimmed hat standing several feet away from the bed.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” He looked around for his clothes, only to find them laying at the intruder’s feet.

“Looking, searching, whispering. Soon they will find you. Trespassing. They don’t understand you wanted to help.” 

Sorcha rubbed her eyes, mouth opening in a wide yawn. “Cole, good morning.”

Not letting the boy out of his sight, Alistair asked, “You know him?”

“He’s my friend.” Like that was enough of an explanation—of course it was, Alistair also always had friends sneaking into his room while muttering strange phrases—she turned to Cole. “Thank you for the warning, I’ll make sure he gets out of here without anyone noticing.”

Cole nodded and was gone. Like, one moment he was standing there, keeping Alistair from getting his clothes, the next he was gone. Or maybe he’d turned invisible. Narrowing his eyes, Alistair searched the air for a sign of… something.

Apparently undisturbed by the intrusion and sudden disappearance, Sorcha leapt out of bed and handed him his clothes. “Better get dressed, get to your room before your guards form a search party.”

“You’re just going to ignore there was a man standing here a heartbeat ago?” Still scanning the room, he took the bundle from her.

She tilted her head, a smile playing around her lips. “That was Cole, he’s a spirit, sort of, that’s here to help. You don’t have to be afraid of him, he’s gone now.”

“I’m not afraid. Just… startled. Yes, I was startled.” He swept his feet over the edge of the bed. “Does he always do this?”

She shrugged. “If he thinks he has to help.”

A spirit as a friend. He supposed he wasn’t one to judge, after all, he’d travelled together with a golem, a drunken dwarf and an elderly mage that had had a spirit to help her too. Allies often turned up in unexpected places.

He pulled his shirt over his head and found Sorcha had not left her place. She was studying him, biting her lower lip in a way that— He lowered his gaze. Oh, that was— Little he could do to hide his reaction at seeing her standing naked in front of him like that. 

He placed a hand on the gentle curve of her hip, pulling her in. Her chest was at the perfect height for him to... He cupped a breast, bending over to run his tongue around a nipple. It stiffened under his touch and she gasped. Around and around, a soft bite to make her shudder. She was now rocking back and forth with her fingers curling up in his hair.

“Alistair, we really don’t,” _moan_ , “don’t have time.”

Breathing heavily, he pulled back. “I know. Stupid, stupid duties.” 

He got dressed and, wrapped in a dressing gown, she showed him the hidden tunnel that would take him to one of the unused guest rooms near his. Once he reached his room, he told his guards he’d been up early and had gone outside for some air. Whether they believed it or not, they didn’t inquire any further. Being king did have its advantages.

When the time came to leave, Sorcha was there to give them an official farewell. A few loose strands of black hair fluttered in the air when she turned to him.

“It has been an honour to have the King of Ferelden visit us,” she said like she was reciting a lecture. Her eyes flickered to Ambassador Montilyet, who was standing a few paces away. Suddenly, all her attention was on him and she lowered her voice, though the handful of people around them would hear anyway. “Thank you. For staying.”

“Any time.” He cleared his throat before reciting the lines etiquette asked for. “My gratitude for inviting me. Us.” A blush warmed his cheeks at the seemingly innocent words. “It is my hope that our negotiations will continue and lead to a lasting relationship between the Inquisition and Ferelden.”

It was hard to ignore the way her eyes sparkled in a face that was carefully being kept neutral. “It’s been my pleasure.” 

“Eh. Yes.” He coughed a few times, trying to find the right words. “I wish you all the best.” With that, he gave his soldiers the sign to leave. 

It wasn’t until they were well past the gates of Skyhold that he felt the blush subside. With each step that brought him closer to Denerim, the image of her sparkling eyes blended into another pair of eyes. Ones that would never again sparkle.


End file.
